


A Friend In Need

by celynBrum (Celyn_Brum)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Corypheus, Canon-Typical Violence, Dorian and Sera get in trouble together, Friends of Red Jenny, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Robin Hood Morality, Val Royeaux, You don't need to be in the fandom to read this (I tested it on someone who wasn't)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-26 06:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14396427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celyn_Brum/pseuds/celynBrum
Summary: In which a runaway Magister's son falls upon hard times, meets a ragtag elf with a suspicious number of friends, and embarks upon a life of crime.Or, the story of how Dorian became a Friend of Red Jenny.





	1. In Which Dorian Meets Sera

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place in an AU Thedas where we don't have to worry about Corypheus.
> 
> Please note that there is some violence in later chapters; I don't think it counts as graphic but please let me know if I'm wrong so I can update the Archive Warnings. If you think of any good tags, let me know- I'm terrible at them!

The spires of Val Royeaux dominated the sky. Music rang through the night air; gilded marble and colourful silks gleamed in the lamplight. It was a graceful echo of the Golden City that had once stood at the centre of creation... until one left the lofty estates and genteel bazaars behind. In the winding streets and alleys, the smell of perfume gave way to the stink of manure, piss, and alcohol. The elegant draperies were replaced by mouldering crates and huddling beggars. Beneath her flawless porcelain mask, Val Royeaux was filthy and rotten.

It was a view of the city that had become depressingly familiar to one Dorian Pavus, previously of Qarinus by way of Minrathous. Thrown bodily out of a crumbling tavern to land face-first in the aforementioned filth, Dorian spared a moment to wince for the state of his robes. His attention then focused on the doorway he had so recently and unwittingly exited. It was dominated by a hulking brute of a man, covered in scars and entirely hairless save for two beetling black eyebrows. Dorian scrambled away as the brute stepped forward, but he needn't have bothered. He was stepping aside so that his employer, a dwarf with a neatly-braided brown beard and a blue velvet doublet, could get past.

"Perhaps we could discuss this?" Dorian suggested, although he suspected they were already far past that point. His fingers twitched as he reached for the Fade, holding it ready and tingling under his skin.

The dwarf looked at Dorian as if he had detected something particularly disgusting on his shoe. "I don't waste words on liars and cheats."

The brutish man took a menacing step forwards. He loomed over Dorian, still sprawled on the ground. Dorian threw his hands out in apparent surrender. "I'll pay you back! Double!"

"You got twenty royals?"

"I'll get it!" Dorian eyed the brute. "By next week, I swear!"

The dwarf held up a hand. The brute stopped his advance. "You'd better, or you'll get worse than a beating." He turned, then paused and looked back. "Don't let me see your face unless you've got my money."

As the two of them walked back inside, Dorian dropped back onto the grimy cobbles with a sigh of relief. He let the mana he had been gathering dissolve back past the Veil. As methods of self-defence went, magically setting your foes aflame worked a treat, but in the South it drew far too much unwanted attention. Whilst the Templar population of Val Royeaux was somewhat depleted at present, and the great and the good of Orlais found it politically expedient to pretend their Tevinter counterparts were not in the least bit inclined to the arcane, none of that would help Dorian if his luck ran out.

Luck wasn't something he'd been too inclined to count on, of late.

After a few minutes he decided he should move before he was run over by a dung-cart or something equally plebian. Staggering to his feet took longer than it should have done. He was sure he hadn't drunk that much, but then it was on an empty stomach and he did fumble the cards, so who knew. With one hand against the wall he navigated away from the run-down, rat-infested hole in the wall that had been both his lodgings and sole source of income for the last week.

A couple of alleyways over Dorian stopped and sank down onto a crate to take stock. He had a split lip and bruises growing over his cheek, arms and ribs. What meagre possessions he had remaining were gone for good. He had spent the last of his coin earlier on drinks and his stake in the card game; he had rather been counting on _not_ getting caught cheating to be able to make it through tomorrow. That left... the clothes on his back, which despite their exalted origins had seen better days. There was a delightfully fragrant fresh stain seeping into the soft wool.

Dorian pressed his thumb and forefinger to his temples and concentrated very, very hard on not crying. Once this kohl smudged, he didn’t have any to hand to fix it. For a single brief moment of insanity he considered returning home. Then he reminded himself that even if he were willing to do so- which he most assuredly was not- he no longer had the means to make the journey. No, he had only two options. Either he had to find twenty royals and pay back Ducan in the next seven days, or he had to get beyond the dwarf's reach. Neither seemed particularly feasible with no money, no friends, and no influence to speak of.

Maker, he wanted a drink.

Something shifted in the alley. Not a sound, but a change in the air and shadows. Dorian didn't even bother to look up.

"If you're planning to rob me, I'm afraid you'll be terribly disappointed."

There was a pause. "You don't know it. What if I just want to stick it to some fancy-pants nob in the wrong part of town?"

Dorian waved a hand towards the woman, still not raising his head. "Be my guest. I'll likely be dead in a week anyway."

"Eurgh, you're sucking all the fun out of it." The stranger walked across to lean against the wall opposite Dorian, giving him a view of a threadbare red tunic and short leather boots packed with rags to make them fit. Figuring he may as well, he looked up to find an unkempt elf studying him with a frown. Her blonde hair was hacked off short and uneven, and there was a bow slung over her shoulder.

"You look like shit," she said. Dorian let out a bark of laughter and her frown became a full-on scowl. "What, I'm a joke?"

Dorian shook his head, still grinning. "No. Not you." He took a deep breath and the smile faded. "Me."

"That's because you're funny." The elf smirked at him and swirled a finger by her temple. "Funny ha-ha and funny in the head, right?"

"Probably," Dorian agreed, because why not? At this point, he certainly wasn't able to claim he had a grip on his life. Not honestly, at least. "Although I seem to be in good company, Miss...?"

"Sera," said the elf. She wrinkled her nose. "Just Sera. Don't need none of this hoity-toity fancy _Miss_ piss." She snickered. "Heh. Miss piss."

"Sera." Dorian leaned back against the alley wall, which was cold and possibly even a little wet. Delightful. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'd bow, but I'm frankly not certain what will happen if I try to stand up."

There was another pause.

"What're you doing here?"

Dorian closed his eyes. "Right now? Falling asleep, I suspect."

"No, I mean..." Sera's voice trailed off for a moment. "Why're you falling asleep in a crap alley in the slums? Don't you have, like, people to carry you back to your mansion on a gold throne or something?"

"Appearances can be deceiving," Dorian said. He tried for mysterious, but suspected the result was best described as exhausted.

"Yeah, but you're proper posh, you are. Silk smalls with the little fancy sewing on and talking with a mouth all full of silver spoons, used to bossing people around, the whole nine. I can tell."

Dorian cracked an eye open to glare at her. "So?"

"So what're _you_ doing _here?"_

Dorian sighed and closed his eyes again. "Look, not that this hasn't been utterly delightful, but I have absolutely no interest in sharing my life story with a total stranger. I really don't have anything worth stealing, so unless you can spare a few pennies-"

"For real? You're cadging off me?"

"Why not? I may as well get a head start on my exciting new career as a roadside beggar." Dorian folded his arms around himself, trying to trap whatever heat he could. It occurred to him that sleeping outside in this beastly Southern climate he might not ever get warm again. Especially if the rest of his life was measured in days.

Maker. He was _not_ going to start crying in front of some elven riff-raff in a filthy alley.

He startled as an arm, small but wiry, slid around his shoulders. "What the-"

"Come on, Fancy Pants," said Sera. "Can't leave you here all sad and drippy like that. You want to sleep some place with a roof or not?"

Dorian let her guide him to his feet. "I... you're helping me?"

"Yeah. Must be going stupid." Sera scrunched her nose up as she looked at his face. "Don't get all weepy on me or anything."

"Perish the thought."

"And no funny business or you're getting an arrow. Pointy end first."

"An entirely fair and equitable arrangement."

"And speak frigging normal, will you?"

"You first," Dorian retorted.

Sera snickered. "You got sack, Silk Britches."

"Dorian." Dorian stumbled on a cobblestone; Sera caught him, and he leaned on her more heavily. "My name is Dorian."

"So even your name sounds nobbish, then." Sera was a few inches shorter than him, but didn't seem to have any trouble holding him up. "You're going to get posh on all my stuff."

"Sadly, I don't imagine it will make much of an impression," Dorian told her. Sera snickered again. Dorian was starting to wonder if she was even capable of a proper laugh.

Sera led him through the maze of alleyways with a certainty that spoke to better night vision than Dorian had ever possessed. He was soon hopelessly lost. By his best estimate, they were at the other edge of the slums by the time they reached their destination. Dorian wasn't sure exactly what he had been expecting, but it wasn't what he saw.

Some time in the past a well-meaning benefactor had clearly thought well of the area's prospects, enough to fund a small stone bazaar inspired by the grander marketplaces frequented by the nobility. The optimism had been misplaced. The stones of the courtyard were cracked and displaced by weeds, the mosaic centrepiece gaping with gaps in the coloured tiles. Wood and canvas stalls, silent for the night, stretched between the pillars and in the half-dozen gaping holes that had once been intended as the lower salons. Half of the upper level had crumbled, but the other half still stood. Two of the chambers were open, filled with rubbish and debris. The third was covered by a heavy, garish curtain.

Sera led Dorian up the crumbling stairs and to the curtained opening. There, she propped him against a pillar covered in crude amateur carvings while she disabled some manner of complex trap. His eyebrows rose when she pulled the curtain back to reveal a space that was positively cosy. Sera had filled every inch of her makeshift home. Cushions and rugs carpeted the floor, while purloined valuables lined the walls and lay in heaps in the corners. Drapes covered the water stains and graffiti. It was, quite frankly, better than anywhere Dorian had been able to afford in a long while.

"You keep gawking, your eyeballs will drop out," said Sera.

Dorian tightened his jaw and sniffed. "Merely shocked by your lack of taste." He walked past her less steadily than he would have liked and dropped onto a pile of cushions. He winced as his bruises jarred.

A blanket, rough but clean, hit him in the face. "Whatever," said Sera. "Waste of time, you are."

Dorian burrowed into the blanket and the pillows. It wasn't quite as good as a real bed, but was a vast improvement over a damp alleyway. He had no idea how long Sera was willing to let him stay, or what he was going to do about the money he owed Ducan. At least now those were problems for tomorrow.

Something damp soaked from his face onto the cushion. Damn it all, there went the kohl.

"Sera?"

There was a rustle from across the room. "Yeah?"

"Thank you." Dorian’s voice came out rougher than he had intended.

"Pfft. Idiot."

There was something comforting about the dismissal. Dorian lay in silence and listened to Sera moving about until he fell asleep.

~

Dorian woke with a jolt, reaching for a staff that wasn't there. He stared in mute confusion at the riot of clashing rugs, drapes and pillows around him, until his memory caught up with his body and reminded him of the night before. Then he groaned and dropped face-first back into the cushions. That was a mistake. The bruise on his face had come up, and was every bit as sore as the rest of him. How lovely to have a reminder of being resoundingly thrashed by hired muscle for his incompetence as a card sharp.

The blasts of mage-fire pounding on the inside of his skull were a reminder of something else entirely. It seemed that the deserted marketplace of the night before was now in full swing. Dorian squeezed his eyes shut and dragged a cushion over his head in a futile attempt to block out the chatter and bustle coming from below. Hawkers and hagglers both fought to make themselves heard. The smells of spices and cooking meat made Dorian's mouth water even as his stomach churned. That this particular condition was self-inflicted made it no less torturous. Dorian sent a silent prayer to the Maker that his benefactor was a late riser, or would at least allow her houseguest to be such.

No such luck. There was a rattle of curtain-rings and a burst of daylight and noise as Sera came striding in. By the light of day her bow and quiver were better made and maintained than Dorian had assumed the night before.

"C'mon, sleepy!" She poked him in the side with a toe. Dorian grunted and flinched away; she had hit him in the bruises. "Sun's been up for hours! Things to do!"

As mercy was clearly not going to be forthcoming, Dorian poked his head out from under the cushion. "And pray what things, precisely, would those be?"

His chilling tone was undermined somewhat by his squinting against the light like a newborn kitten. Sera certainly wasn’t in the least intimidated. She dropped down onto the cushions next to him and gestured with an apple. "You know. Things. Stuff."

"Ah, of course. Stuff." Dorian tried to shade his eyes with a hand. "How foolish of me not to realise. Clearly this was worth disturbing my rest over."

"Don't be a tit." Sera flicked an apple seed at him; it bounced off his nose and landed among the pillows. "You need coin, yeah? I got work."

Dorian pushed himself up on his elbows, interest piqued despite his better judgement. Still, he had some pride left. "I don't recall volunteering to be your cohort."

Sera scowled. "Fine. Thought we could maybe help each other out, but you can piss right off with your fancy pants and your... fancy words. Arse."

"Now, let's not be hasty," said Dorian, quickly. "I merely wasn't expecting your offer. I may not be averse, if you could explain what is involved."

Maker, let it not be too intolerable. Dorian was under no illusions that he had any better prospects. His heart hammered in his mouth as Sera continued to glare at him. After a lifetime she seemed to come to a decision, relaxing between one blink and the next.

"Right, so there's this Lord, Whatsisname," said Sera. "And he's a complete arse, right? But he's a _rich_ arse, with all these rich, arsey friends."

Dorian was starting to get a sense of where this was going.

"So Lord Whatsis is having this big piss-up this week," Sera continued. "Him and all his big priggy mates eating snail's bollocks and waffling about the price of stripweed. Who cares, yeah? Point is, they're coming from all over to stay with him. In Val Royeaux. Figure they've gotta be bringing all kinds of pricey shit with, right?"

"So you want to rob them." Dorian’s heart sank. "You do understand that Orlesian nobility will be travelling with their own private _spies_ and _soldiers_ as well as spending money?"

Sera grinned. "Well, _yeah_. That's what makes it fun!"

"You may actually be insane."

"You're here too, ain'tcha?" Sera took another bite out of the apple, so large that she had to chew with her mouth open. "You in or out?"

Dorian squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What _possible_ role could you have for me in this... no, I'm not going to elevate it by calling it a plan. This is a _scheme_ at best, and that is being remarkably generous."

Sera made a rude noise. "Why do you noble pricks gotta make shit all complicated? Look, my friends got me an invite to the party, but I got no-one to use it. I figure we put you in a mask and a frilly shirt, you'll know what fork's what. I come in pretending to be your arse-wiper, go take their stuff, then we split it after. You get to go to a party and get paid. What's not to like?"

"That's the plan?" Dorian stared at her. "The entire plan? You haven't left any pertinent little details out, like how we're going to get out of there carrying everyone else's belongings, or what to do if we're caught?"

She tossed the apple core over her shoulder. "They're arseholes, we want their gold, let's go get it! It's not frigging difficult!"

Dorian swallowed. He could leave. Sera didn't look as if she would stop him. He could get up and walk out of her squalid little squat and her insane schemes. And then he could... he could...

 _Vishante kaffas._ He didn't have any better options. A slew of objections occurred to Dorian with the realisation, every one of them more spurious than Sera's proposal. He took a long breath and firmly told himself that yes, he was actually going to agree to this.

"I suppose if I'm going to get myself killed in a harebrained scheme, it may as well be one with decent catering.” He waved a hand in breezy dismissal. "I don't suppose your friends cared to mention what sort of party it was?"

Sera stared at him. "A posh one?"

"Yes, I rather suspected you'd say that." Dorian pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, see if you can find out, won't you? There are social niceties to observe, after all, and it wouldn't do for me to stand out." He considered his words. "Well, any more than the Maker intended, at any rate."

Sera snorted. "You always this big in your britches?"

"Invariably," said Dorian. Then his ears caught up with his brain. "Wait, what?"

"Too late! No take-backs!" Sera bounced away from him, cackling as she slipped out through the curtain. Dorian dropped back onto the pillows and closed his eyes against the intrusive daylight.

So. Apparently he was to become a thief. Perhaps he should have seen this coming all along. Dorian found himself wondering if his father would be shocked to see him now, and put a firm stop to that line of thought before it could get out of hand. Instead, he mentally apologised to Alexius and Felix- who, when all was said and done, had almost succeeded in making an upstanding member of society out of him- and hauled himself to his feet. He hadn't been joking when he asked Sera what sort of party to expect, and he certainly wasn't going to trust her to dress him appropriately. The woman was wearing plaidweave leggings, for Andraste's sake.

Dorian was hung over, bruised, and owed twenty royals he didn't have to a vicious bastard of a dwarf with entirely too much luck at cards. But if he was to be a thief, he was damn well going to be good at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love the dynamic between Dorian and Sera. I also really love con artist and heist stories. So this is my love letter to those things. :)
> 
> Update next week (Sunday 29th April). See you then!


	2. In Which Dorian Attends A Party

According to a series of scruffy and poorly-spelled notes left by Sera's mysterious friends, "Lord Whatsis" was in fact Marquis Gervais Boudreaux, a former Chevalier forced to retire by an injury sustained in the Grand Tourney. The occasion was an engagement party for his daughter Madeleine. Whilst the guest list was more than long enough to conceal a single interloper, Dorian had reservations about the identity he was to be using.

"No-one is going to believe I'm from Mont-de-Glace," he told Sera. He didn't bother keeping his voice low; the marketplace was in riotous swing around them.

"Well, don't be, then." Sera stopped by a vendor and handed over a handful of coppers in exchange for two skewers of meat. "Not like they have to believe it more than a few hours."

Dorian accepted a skewer. A passing elbow jostled him and he frowned after the owner. "They won't believe it for a few minutes if I claim otherwise. The mask you got me is House Delpieu. They haven't managed to expand their holdings in almost a full age."

"You _said_ as far away as possible."

"I _said_ Nevarran border, if possible!" Dorian took a bite of the meat. It was burnt and over-spiced, but that was only to be expected. "Perendale or Churneau, I could fake. Mont-de-Glace is at the other end of Orlais!"

"So?" Sera finished her own skewer and tossed the stick towards another stall. It landed in a wicker basket and she smirked in victory. "You high-and-mighty lot get married all over the place. Like they'll care where you're from 's long as you've got the right string of fancy in your name."

Dorian opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Sera wouldn't budge in the face of mere reason, and this time she might actually have some glimmering of a point. Not that he would dream of telling her that.

"Well, what about the gift?" he asked instead, changing tack. "Without a suitable present for the happy couple I am going to be a very noticeable _persona non grata_ tonight. If we get thrown out that could put quite the crimp in your plans to rob them blind."

"Have some faith, yeah?" Sera led him to the back of the marketplace and crouched beside a pile of crates. She reached behind one and pulled out a bulky parcel wrapped in waxed paper. It hit Dorian in the chest harder than was strictly necessary. "I got friends all over." Her smirk spread. _"All over."_

"Yes, I rather got that." Dorian was learning to ignore Sera's diversions into obscenity. "If nothing else, the half hour you spent closeted with that rat-catcher was an olfactory experience I will never forget. The question is whether your friends got what I actually asked for." The contents of the package would need some privacy. He headed for the stairs up.

"You don't want it, I can steal _your_ breeches!" Sera yelled after him. Dorian ignored that too.

Once he was back in Sera's lair he opened the package to find clothes. Folded in the centre was a wooden box carved with elven designs. Whether it was genuine Dalish make or simply a fashionable imitation was beyond Dorian's ability to evaluate. Sliding the lid back, he found a variety of small, fragrant packages. Teas and tinctures from across Thedas- Sera's friends were either very well connected, or had very sticky fingers, to assemble such a sampling.

"So's that meet your stupid shit standards or what?" Sera strolled in through the curtain.

"It will suffice." Dorian closed the box and set it down on an upturned crate that was serving as a table. "The clothes, however..."

Sera made a rude noise. "Urgh, you gotta be a prick about _everything?"_

Dorian held up the silk tunic. It was a deep oceanic blue, details picked out with ornate gold embroidery. It was as well-sized for him as he could have expected, given its provenance, and lacking in any worrying holes or stains that might have indicated the fate of a previous owner.

"Sera, this is _last season's fashion,"_ he told her.

Sera rolled her eyes and dropped onto a pile of cushions opposite. "Well, I'm friggin' sorry we don't have a tailor and gold buttons and all that other stuff!"

"If I wear this, I'll be a laughing stock!"

"Tough titties, 'cos that's what we got." Sera jabbed a finger at him. "Look, this shit goes missing, probably no-one even realises. Maybe they do and all the staff get yelled at, whatever. Someone vanishes Lord Hoity-Toity's brand new tunic, he'll friggin' notice that!" Her eyes narrowed. "What'd you do to a servant who ripped you off, back when you were fat with it?"

Words tripped on Dorian's tongue and faded as his cheeks burned. He hadn't even considered the risks Sera's friends were taking to get what they needed. He presumed they were well compensated somehow, but still...

"Unless you wanna back out?" Contempt weighed heavy in Sera’s voice. Dorian flinched before he could stop himself.

"No," he said, too hastily. He swallowed and tried again. "No, I don't believe that will be necessary. I'll make this work."

Sera's face lightened and she released her bow. Maker, he hadn't even noticed her grab for it. "Right, then. I'll go sort me."

She was gone before Dorian could argue. Still shaky, he sank down onto the edge of another crate. He'd known he was a necessary evil to Sera. She had only fished him out of the gutter because he needed money and could pass for Orlesian high society. Still, he hadn't seen cold, hard scorn from her until that very moment.

It occurred to Dorian that she might well be planning to kill him after their heist. It was conceivable, too, that he was there to take the fall for the crime. Either would explain why she was unwilling to share any more of the plan with him.

Well, if that was the case, let her try. Dorian set the tunic back down, forcing control into his trembling fingers. Sera might know he was highborn, but she had no idea she was dealing with an Altus of the Tevinter Imperium. If Dorian couldn't navigate one crude plot at an Orlesian party and emerge with his skin intact, he didn't deserve to survive anyway.

Dorian sighed and picked up a battered and outdated copy of the Council of Heralds' _Liste des Titres Héraldiques._ He had found it in the marketplace and held out some faint hope he might concoct a convincing story yet.

~

Marquis Boudreaux's Val Royeaux estate was not particularly modest, but it was a far cry from the splendour of the Palace and the Grand Cathedral. In a less cosmopolitan city the nobleman might have made more of an impression. Dorian remained unimpressed by the marble frontage and gilt columns of the house before him. Its chiefmost positive feature, to his mind, was that it was far from the slums he had been frequenting of late. There were already a good number of carriages and liveried guards outside, and he could hear the sounds of a thriving party through the windows. He had persuaded Sera it was better to arrive fashionably late- partly for the entrance, and partly to reduce the time they spent in the company of their intended marks.

The elven doorman watched stone-faced as they approached. Dorian's heart pounded. Despite the mask covering his face his skin prickled as if exposed. He fought the urge to scan about for the watchers he half-believed had already marked him as a fraud.

Chiding himself for being ridiculous, Dorian cast a glance back at Sera, walking a couple of paces behind him. She had found clothes suitable for a well-heeled servant from somewhere. She had even located a hat to cover her atrocious hair. Her bow was impossible to smuggle in, but Dorian had witnessed her tucking at least four knives into her clothing. And, of course, in the worst case scenario he could still set everyone on fire.

Thus reassured of his safety for the moment, Dorian stopped at the door and presented his invitation with a flourish. The doorman glanced at it with none of the contempt or suspicion Dorian had been fearing.

"My Lord Delpieu," he said. "The Marquis and his daughter bid you welcome." With a bow he pushed the door open and ushered them in. Dorian strode through as if he owned the place and made for the sounds of music and chatter. There was a steward at entrance to the ballroom and he once again stopped to present his invitation.

The steward examined it with a little more care. He actually looked at Sera too- or, more specifically, the box she was carrying. "Your elf can leave the gift here. It will be placed with the rest."

Dorian could _feel_ Sera bristling behind him. A brief vision of what she might do flashed before his eyes.

"So it can go missing between here and there, I suppose?" Dorian leapt into the breach with a haughty tilt of his chin. It was considerably more difficult to express himself fully with the mask in the way. "No, I think not."

The steward's mouth narrowed to a thin line. "My Lord, this is not at all necessary. The Marquis' staff are perfectly capable-"

"Yes, yes." Dorian flapped a hand at the man. "Well, she can come in with me to deliver a gift before leaving me in their care, can she not? Or is the Marquis so deathly afraid of assassins that he sees them lurking in every alcove?"

The steward turned pale, but stepped back. "As you wish, my Lord. I shall announce you now." He stepped through into the bustling party. Dorian glanced back at Sera, who grimaced. Dorian's lips- visible beneath the edge of the half-face mask he wore- curved in a slight smile.

"Lord Sacha Delpieu," he heard the steward proclaim, and then he was sweeping in with Sera in his wake. The entrance was irritatingly unremarkable. Everyone in the room saw it, of course, but a bare third of them bothered with more than a cursory glance. Dorian was briefly offended before recalling that being unworthy of note was, for once, desirable.

One person at least had paid attention to their entrance. Despite his limp and dragon-headed cane, the Marquis was a powerful man. The crowds of masked guests who flocked the hall like the brightly-coloured birds of Qarinus parted to let him pass. His chestnut brown hair was only just starting to grey at the temples. Dorian couldn't see his face beneath his mask- a jowly monstrosity edged in gold leaf and studded with bloodstone- but his eyes were drawn to the man's broad shoulders and deep chest. Under different circumstances...

"Lord Delpieu.” The Marquis extended his free hand towards Dorian. Dorian took it and was subjected to a powerful handshake, the grip so firm as to be almost painful. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure, although I have known an Adélie Delpieu for some years now. Magnificent swordswoman."

"Yes, she is, isn't she?" Dorian smiled. "She speaks fondly of you herself when we see her, which is sadly a rare occasion."

"Always on the move," said Marquis Boudreaux. Dorian fought not to let his relief show. He had done what research he could, but there were limits to the knowledge to be found in a battered genealogy.

"Would that we all saw so many horizons," he said, injecting a note of whimsy into the words. Then, as the Marquis was nodding in agreement: "I myself was travelling and found myself in the vicinity when I heard the joyous news. I hope it is not too much of a presumption on your hospitality, but I did very much want to offer my congratulations to the happy couple." Dorian pressed a hand over his heart and added, in a conspiratorial whisper audible to all around them: "I am something of a romantic at heart, I'm afraid."

Behind Dorian, Sera snorted. The Marquis chuckled, covering the sound. He beckoned to a small knot of people standing a few yards away. A man and a woman detached from the group and crossed the floor to join them.

Dorian's first impression of Madeleine Boudreaux was that she was sadly quite plain. Whilst he would freely admit that he was neither expert in nor connoisseur of feminine good looks, the Marquis' daughter gave the impression of a little brown mouse hiding in a burrow of silks and jewels. The young man beside her was dazzling by comparison. His slim mask left most of his face on view and to Dorian's mind an excellent view it was, golden and statuesque.

"Allow me to present my daughter Madeleine and her fiancé, Tristan du Chamont." Marquis Boudreaux stepped back to give the pair room. "Tristan, Madeleine, this is Lord Sasha Delpieu, one of Adélie's relatives."

Tristan shook Dorian's hand, his grip far less crushing than the Marquis' had been. If Dorian held onto that hand for an infinitesimal moment longer than was polite, well, he was only human, after all.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Tristan smiled, a wolfish look. "Tell me, what relation are you to Adélie, precisely? I must confess to some difficulty seeing the resemblance."

"I, ah..." Fasta vass, he had been _prepared_ for this only moments before. "We are second cousins on my father's side, I believe. I have been told that I favour my mother more." Dorian most emphatically did _not_ say that his fictional mother had been Antivan, or that his supposed branch of the family was a piddling twig of an offshoot. No, he shifted his feet and his gaze, and let his unfashionable tunic do the talking for him. Pride pricked at him when understanding lit in Tristan's eyes, followed by a touch of genuine embarrassment when it was followed by the faintest of sneers. 

"Whatever the case, It was very kind of you to join us." Madeleine spoke in a soft little whisper that did nothing to dispel Dorian's impression of her as a mouse. Still, it was quite heroic of her to come to his rescue, and so he bowed over her proffered hand and kissed it.

"A kindness the Maker has rewarded me for with your presence, my Lady." He ignored Tristan's glare as he straightened. "Ah, but where are my manners?" He beckoned to Sera and was almost barged aside, dancing out the way in the nick of time. "A gift for you both, to celebrate your upcoming nuptials."

Sera thrust the box towards the pair. After a moment Dorian coughed pointedly and she gave a stiff little bow.

"Thank you," said Madeleine, but it was Tristan who took the box. Dorian was vaguely irritated when he didn't even bother to check the contents. Sera straightened and stared Dorian in the eye the moment the gift was out of her hands. Dorian nodded towards the door. She forged towards it without even an iota of grace or consideration for the dancers.

He wasn't the only one watching her go. Tristan's mouth had turned sour again. "Your servant seems most impertinent, if you don't mind my saying."

Dorian sighed. It wasn't entirely theatrics. He hadn't expected a good pretence from Sera, but really... "I know. One simply cannot find the help these days."

"I find a good beating sets them straight soon enough." The Marquis waggled his cane. "You can never be too hasty to cure laziness and insubordination. Set an example, that's what I say!"

Dorian nodded along with Tristan, inwardly sighing. And the South called his homeland barbaric. For all that the Orlesians touted the freedom of their servants, the slaves of House Pavus were better treated. Why, his father would never condone-

_This is for your own good, Dorian._

Unwanted memory was a stumbling block in his train of thought. It froze him from the heart, blocking out the conversation around him. Dorian fought to wrestle it back into the Void where it belonged. When he came back to himself, several seconds- or minutes, or hours- later, the conversation had moved on, and the Marquis was extolling the virtues of Orlesian Coursers. Dorian snatched a drink off the tray of a passing servant with practised grace and took a deep swallow of the wine. An Antivan red- good year, too. It settled his nerves somewhat, so he took another, smaller sip.

“I still say Amaranthine breeds a better charger,” Tristan said. “But I defer to your wisdom, my Lord.”

The Marquis barked with laughter. “As if the dog-lords would know a thing about breeding!” He turned to Dorian. “Back me up here, Lord Delpieu. A good Orlesian horse is the only proper mount- am I right?”

Dorian plastered a smirk on his face and summoned a tone he hadn't had to use since leaving Tevinter. “Oh, quite. Horses, dogs, humans... it's all about the bloodlines, isn't it?”

The wineglass almost shattered in his hand when Tristan and the Marquis nodded. Reigning in his reaction, Dorian barely caught the uncertainty behind Lady Boudreaux's smile. Her eyes darted to the corner of the room- to one of the servants, a young elf who despite his uniform seemed out of place. His hair was wild, his grip on the drinks tray clumsy. As Dorian watched, the elf tugged at the collar of his tunic, as if it was unfamiliar to him.

A slight smile tugged at Dorian's lips, only to fade when he met Lady Boudreaux's gaze and saw muted panic. Clearly she had not intended to be caught looking. It was a terror Dorian was all too familiar with; he met it with the slightest nod, the only reassurance he could offer without giving her away entirely.

“Well, this has been quite delightful,” he said brightly. “But I really must stop monopolising you all. The other guests will be terribly disappointed.”

“Quite, quite!” The Marquis slapped him on the arm, hard enough to bruise. Dorian winced. “A pleasure to meet you, and my regards to Adélie!”

“And mine,” said Tristan. His smile was more reserved. “Please, do enjoy the party.”

“My congratulations again.” Dorian bowed over Lady Boudreaux's hand again, but did not kiss it this time. “My lady.”

The back of his neck itched as he made his retreat. He wound through the crowd towards the wall, stopping by a servant and switching out his empty glass for a fresh one.

“There's no accounting for taste,” he told the servant, and drank the glass in one long pull.

The young elf- for it was he Dorian had chosen to approach- startled. “Are you... are you talking to me?” he asked. Then, belatedly. “My lord?”

Dorian tutted and set the empty glass back on his tray. “Do try to remember your manners, if nothing else. I imagine the Majordome is already regretting letting you out in the public eye.” He eyed the young man up, sniffed at the faint scent of straw and animal dung. “Unless this is an unsanctioned excursion from the stables?”

The young elf blushed, an attractive shade of red under his sun-bronzed skin. “I- that- that is, my Lord-”

Dorian waved him into silence. “Yes, yes, it's all very romantic, and I'm quite sure she has some virtues that make up for the looks, but the two of you need to learn some discretion.”

The flush this time was anger rather than embarrassment. “Madeleine is the most beautiful woman in Val Royeaux!”

“Madeleine, is it?” Dorian quirked an eyebrow. “My, you are familiar. Not to mention quick to open up to a complete stranger. Whatever would you do if I went back over there and told her fiancé all about your little affair?”

The young elf turned ashen. There wasn't a drop of guile in his bones. A pang of sorrow stabbed through Dorian for what was clearly a doomed love.

“I won't, of course,” he said, taking another drink from the tray. “But if you are intending to remain close, then I suggest you become acquainted with the fine art of concealing your feelings in public. Not to mention finding better excuses to be near one another than taking on jobs for which you are plainly unsuited. I assume she already has a favourite horse?”

Wordlessly, the young elf nodded.

“And you have, naturally, taken over its care?” When the young man hesitated, Dorian rolled his eyes. “Honestly, man. How else is she going to request that her new husband hire you for his stables?”

“We know what we're doing,” the elf said, his jaw clenching.

“Well, I certainly hope so.” Dorian took a sip of his wine. It was an excellent vintage. “Maker knows that love and luck won't be enough.” He made to leave.

“Thank you,” said the young elf, quietly. Dorian hesitated for less than a heartbeat before walking on.

With nothing better to do, he wove his way through the crowd towards the garden. The cloisters were packed, but the night air was cool and pleasant. Dorian leaned against a pillar and breathed in the delicate perfume of the flowers. His eyes flicked to the upper storeys of the house, where the occasional flickering light shone through shuttered windows. Somewhere up there, he hoped, Sera was hard at work. Presumably she even had some idea of how to signal him once she was done. Considering how much he was leaving in her hands felt like ants crawling across his skin.

It was strange to be standing at a party so like those he had attended in Tevinter. He had always hated these affairs. The duplicity, the treachery, the masks one was obliged to wear- tangible or otherwise. Dorian had always felt like an outsider pretending. Now that he truly was, it left him more homesick than ever. He let his eyes drift over the other partygoers. Perhaps he could find some of the same diversions here while he waited for Sera; there had to be at least a few unattached, handsome young men about...

“A drink, Messire?”

Dorian turned to find a smiling man with a glass in each hand, offering one to him. A minor Lordling from his clothing, although Dorian couldn't place the heraldry on the mask. Whatever the case, he was of a rank with Dorian's own false identity, and quite trim under the ridiculous Orlesian shirt. Dorian accepted the glass with a grateful nod, abandoning his empty on the garden wall.

“Very generous of you, my Lord.” He took a sip. It was a different vintage, fruity and Orlesian, and it slipped down his throat like syrup. “I shall have to think of some way to thank you.”

The other man chuckled and took a step closer, putting him in Dorian's space. “I've been watching you this evening,” he said.

“Oh?” Dorian’s heart started racing. Some of it was attraction. The rest came from trying to work out if he had done anything incriminating. He took another sip to cover his nerves. “See anything you like?”

A slim finger ran along his jaw. “You... interest me.” The man smiled. He had a lovely mouth. A shame that the mask hid the rest of his face. “I certainly wouldn't mind learning more.”

_Fasta Vass._ The men were never this forward in Tevinter. Dorian took a sizeable gulp of his wine. A warm flush spread through him, reaching up to his cheeks. “Ah, but where would I be without my mysterious allure?”

The man chuckled, a warm sound that spread through Dorian. “Perhaps not so mysterious, my friend.” He laid a hand on Dorian's arm, where it burned hot. Dorian blinked. He was growing fuzzy as well as warm. He tried to raise the glass for another sip, and could only stare as it slipped through his fingers.

The other man caught it before it could hit the floor and set it on the garden wall beside the other. “It is a shame, truly,” he said. “I would very much have liked to know you better.”

Dorian's legs crumpled under him. Suddenly the other man had an arm around his shoulder, supporting his weight without any clear sign of effort. Dorian's eyes flickered to the glass, looking so innocent now that it was empty.

“Drugged,” he managed to slur. “You...”

The man chuckled again. “Fear not, my friend. You will live to play this game again. It has been quite charming to watch you stumble through the steps; perhaps next time we meet, you will have mastered them.” He began to haul Dorian through the cloister, looking for all the world as if he were escorting a drunken friend. “For tonight, though, I am afraid I cannot afford to have you getting underfoot.”

Dorian's panic subsided, but only a little. It seemed the man was a Bard, and thought Dorian a less experienced member of his own profession. He supposed he should be glad for the professional courtesy, but mostly he was embarrassed. Outwitted by Orlesians. If he weren't already disowned, this would certainly be grounds for it. In the meantime, whatever Sera's plan was, he doubted it included this. Which meant he was now trapped on his own, drugged into uselessness and relying on an identity as thin as the stolen mask he was wearing.

Maker, this had been a mistake. He should have taken his chances with Ducan. Surely there couldn't have been that many thugs to set aflame?

The Bard steered him through a side door and into a hall less packed with guests. Few took note as Dorian was steered up a grand staircase. They either assumed that a friend was taking him to sleep it off, or else that a man as drunk as he seemed had anything coming. Humiliation burned Dorian's cheeks. He was an excuse once again, a prop that gave the man free access to the upper storeys.

He was half expecting to be deposited in a broom closet. It came as a pleasant surprise when the Bard started trying doors and, on the third attempt, walked them into a decently appointed guest room. Whatever gratitude Dorian felt evaporated at once when the man dropped him onto the bed like a sack of potatoes. He tried to roll off, only to flop listlessly against the covers.

“Hush, my friend,” said the Bard. “I assure you, this will wear off soon.” So saying, he rummaged through the drawers. Dorian blanched when the Bard turned back with a handful of handkerchiefs and an evil gleam in his eye.

“My apologies, but I cannot have you alerting others.” So saying the Bard got to work, tying Dorian's hands to the bedpost and using another handkerchief to gag him. The knots weren't tight enough to do serious harm, but Dorian's weak squirming came nowhere close to escape. Dorian suspected that if he was left tied for long he would start to cramp, but for all the Bard's improvised materials he knew what he was doing.

As he finished trussing Dorian up, the Bard paused, then bent down to press a swift kiss to Dorian's temple. “To next time,” he said, and with a wink was gone out the door. Dorian heard the lock click into place, even though the man hadn't been carrying a key.

Well. This was a predicament.

Dorian closed his eyes to stop the room from spinning, and spent several minutes trying to clear his head. It wasn't particularly effective, but as the Bard had promised, the drug was already starting to wear off. Fast to act and fast to fade, it seemed. Dorian was still unsteady and fuzzy around the edges, but it was no worse than being excessively drunk. That was a state he excelled at.

More importantly, whilst the Bard's precautions were adequate against an ordinary man, Dorian's connection to the Fade was as strong as ever. It took him longer than usual to call the magic through the Veil, but that was a matter of concentration, not power. Dorian smiled wolfishly as the handkerchiefs binding his wrists flared and crumbled to ash. The gag he tore off. He didn't even bother with the locked door, instead going to the window and throwing it wide. The room overlooked the rear of the house, and a quick look showed Dorian that the next room over had a small balcony.

It occurred to him as he was halfway out the window that this was the first time he had used this particular exit without the threat of an angry spouse, parent or mentor on his heels. Yet more benefits of a disreputable lifestyle, it seemed.

There was a decorative moulding below the window, barely an inch thick. Dorian lowered himself onto it, gripping the windowsill with aching hands. From there he eyed up the distance to the balcony rail. He edged closer until he was holding on with only one hand, straining to lean as far as he could without falling. The stone of the mansion was rough against his cheek as he stretched forward. He was less than a foot from the balustrade.

Dorian took a deep breath, tensed, and jumped.

His hand wrapped around a marble baluster. He let out a stifled moan of pain as the rest of him dropped, wrenching his shoulder. A cold sweat broke out on Dorian’s forehead as he forced himself to swing the other arm up. He gasped as he hauled himself onto the railing and toppled over it gracelessly, collapsing in a heap on the other side. His shoulder burned; he wrapped his other hand around it, calling on a pulse of creation magic. Healing was far from his speciality, but it was enough to turn the screaming agony into a dull ache, and that would do him well enough.

He staggered to the balcony doors, the effects of the drug still making him woozy, and flung them open. There was a feminine shriek. On the bed, a pair of lovers were in the midst of energetically proving their devotion. Their masks lay abandoned with the rest of their clothing on the floor.

“Ladies." Dorian gave them a nod and a small bow. Then he swanned past, out into the hallway. It was still empty, the sounds of the party drifting up from downstairs. Dorian allowed himself a moment to consider his strategy.

Going back to the party was, of course, out of the question. The last thing he needed was for the Bard- or one of his counterparts- to decide that Dorian should be permanently taken out of the picture. Lingering out in the open also seemed unwise. It opened him to far too many questions if discovered.

No, he needed to leave as soon as possible, and with that goal in mind Dorian set out to find Sera.

Unfortunately the estate was as sizeable on the upper floors as it was at ground level. After his second close call with a group of tipsy revellers, Dorian purloined an empty glass from a side table and started reeling through the halls. That took him far enough to work out that there was no sign of Sera anywhere near the guest rooms, which was frankly alarming. It meant that there was more of the plan he didn't know. Dorian was considering cutting his losses and leaving without Sera when he heard the unmistakable sound of armoured footsteps. He ducked into the shadows behind a staircase, peeking out at whoever was coming.

“Are you sure about this, Tristan?” The Marquis Boudreaux crested the stairs with his soon-to-be son-in-law. Half a dozen armed guards followed, the source of the noise.

“Absolutely. I was at the Delpieu estate only two months ago." Tristan du Chamont frowned at the empty corridor. “There's no sign of him or the elf. Whatever move they're making, it's already underway.”

The Marquis nodded and made a gesture. Dorian ducked back as his head swung towards the stairs, but he was only looking at another guard- this one dragging a familiar and terrified elven youth with him.

Dorian winced as the Marquis yanked the stable boy out of the guard's hands and threw him to the ground. “You. Start talking.”

The stable boy raised his hands. The ill-fitting uniform was rumpled now, his wild hair even less tame, and at this distance Dorian could see tears in his eyes. “Please, my Lord, I don't know anything!”

“You expect us to believe that?” Tristan loomed over the boy. “You are a stable hand, not a server. First you sneak into the ballroom, then you were talking to him right before he vanished, now you dare lie?”

The stable boy was openly sobbing now. “Please, my Lords...”

Tristan raised a fist. Dorian winced and looked away. It did nothing to hide the sound of a fist hitting flesh, or the stable boy’s cry of pain.

“Tell us what your accomplice has planned,” Tristan snarled.

The only response was incoherent, barely more than sobbing. Dorian swallowed and closed his eyes, guilt sitting like a stone in his gullet. Worse was the terror clenching in his gut. It was obvious who they were looking for. “Lord Sacha Delpieu” hadn't even lasted a single conversation.

The sound of lighter footsteps running up the stairs, and then- “Father!”

Dorian peered around again in time to see Madeleine Boudreaux catch her father by the cane arm. “Father, please! This isn't Émile's fault!” Stray locks of hair had come unbound and were tumbling around her mask. Animated as she was, even by distress, Dorian could suddenly see why Émile would consider her beautiful. Quietness and modesty did not suit her in the least.

Dorian wasn't sure how he expected the Marquis to respond to his daughter's plea. He would not have predicted the slap. The blow echoed in the stairwell, no mere token. Madeleine reeled back with one hand pressed to her reddening cheek.

“Silence, girl!” the Marquis snapped. Tristan turned to eye his fiancée.

“And just how do you know this rabbit’s name?”

Madeleine, her mask askew and her hand still to her face, opened and closed her mouth in silent terror. Her eyes moved from her father to her would-be-husband and back again.

Dorian clenched his fist, flames starting to flicker around his knuckles.

“Enough of this.” The Marquis jabbed a finger at one of the guards. “You, lock her in her room. We can deal with her later; for now, we need to get searching for the imposter and his elf.”

“Yes, sir." The guard took Madeleine's arm, more gently than Dorian would have thought, and led her away. She cast a look over her shoulder at the still-sobbing Émile before she was escorted around the corner and out of sight.

Tristan hissed, then turned back to the guards. “Bring him,” he ordered, with a gesture at Émile. The guards hauled the stable boy to his feet more roughly, and followed Tristan up the stairs. The Marquis brought up the rear, slowed by his cane. Dorian waited for a count of thirty before he set out after them. He needed to warn Sera that their cover was blown.

At the top of the stairs he turned away from the sound of armoured men and sobbing. In the dark corridors of the upper floor he shoved at doors, rattling the locked handles and delving into rooms too shadowy to see through.

“Sera,” he hissed, time and time again without answer. “Sera, damn it all, where are you?!”

He tugged at the next door with a sense of rising panic. The guards had to have searched most of the floor by now. They could have found Sera, could have learned that he wasn't some political rival worth respecting, could already be waiting for him to stumble into their waiting blades...

Dorian stumbled into a long portrait gallery and was greeted by the sight of Sera busily defacing paintings with a jar of ink and her finger.

“What are you doing?” His blood rose hot as he pressed the door closed behind him. “What happened to robbing them? How does this help anything?”

Sera glanced at him. “Mar-kiss-arse needs to get off his high horse. Look, this one's got your face-fuzz.”

Dorian barely glanced at the inky moustache she had drawn on a previous Marquise. “We don't have time for this. They worked out I'm an imposter. There are guards combing the building for us both.”

Sera stamped over and thrust the ink-pot into his hands. “Friggin’ rubbish, you are! What's even the point if you can't keep them off my arse?”

“I didn't have to come and warn you, you know!” Dorian hissed back, shoving the ink-pot into a pocket. “I told you this plan was terrible!”

“You're terrible!”

“Me? Did you even steal anything, or were you too busy engaging in petty vandalism?”

A bag, little larger than a pouch, hit him in the chest. It was heavy with lumpy coins and jewellery and other small, valuable trinkets.

“You want it so bad, you have it,” Sera snapped. “My bit's done, anyway.”

Dorian was getting a headache. “Your bit?”

Sera opened her mouth but before she could speak, the door at the other end of the gallery swung open. Two guards gaped at them. The frontmost man raised a crossbow.

Sera had at least four knives on her person. What she didn't have was time to use them.

Fire answered Dorian, flashing into being hot and brilliant from his fingertips. The guards screamed as the flames enveloped them, melting steel and searing flesh. The wood of the door frame smouldered as their charred corpses slumped. The gallery filled with the smell of burning pork.

Dorian started to lower his hand. He froze when a dagger pricked his neck.

“Fuck.” Sera’s voice was shaking. Her fingers trembled against his skin, blade wobbling with them. “Fuck fucking wanky _bollocks,_ you're a mage.”

Dorian didn't move a muscle. He slid his eyes to the side and winced. Sera was pale with fear.

“Fuck!” Sera shook her head, expression curling into pure rage. “I let you sleep in my frigging place!”

Dorian swallowed.

“You could've vomited all demons and shit on me!” The knife at his throat pressed closer and he had to concentrate not to flinch away. “I... I was asleep! In the same room as your freaky magic arse!”

Dorian looked into her wide-blown eyes. “Are you going to kill me?” he asked, feigning nonchalance. “Because if not, could you please remove the dagger? It's getting in the way of our daring escape. Those guards have friends, you know.”

The tip of the dagger pressed closer. For an instant, Dorian tasted regret bitter on his tongue. Then Sera pulled her hand back, sheathing the dagger even as she backed away from him.

“You find your own way out,” she snarled. “Fucking weirdy _prick.”_

Then she was running, picking her way past the burned corpses with disgust. Dorian was left standing alone in the dark with an unexpected pain in his chest.

One more thing he hadn't predicted. He should start expecting it at this point. With a heavy sigh he turned and opened the door behind him.

He froze at the sight of Tristan's blade, levelled at his nose.

“Ah, Lord Delpieu,” said Tristan, grinning from ear to ear in a deeply unpleasant fashion. “I was just looking for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian and Sera still have some corners to knock off. Like the ones that make 'em be arseholes about slavery and magic, respectively.
> 
> Sera is a very difficult character to write dialogue for, but it's rewarding to finally get it right! She's got such a strong voice that getting it even a little off feels very wrong. Not that I'm an expert. (Not yet, at least...)


	3. In Which Dorian Makes A Choice

Dorian's mask lay on a table across the room beside the bag of stolen valuables. It may as well have been in Minrathous for all the good it would do him. Even if his disguise hadn't been completely blown there was no way he could reach it. Bound hand and foot to a heavy chair and dosed with magebane, Dorian was finding it hard to think straight. Concocting an escape plan was proving quite impossible.

Across the room, Émile was similarly bound and staring at him with open curiosity and not a little fear. Dorian rather wished he wouldn't.

Tristan leaned back on the couch in front of him. His own mask was still firmly attached, of course, but Dorian was no longer curious what lay beneath it. In point of fact, he was developing quite a healthy hatred of the man. It proved an excellent antidote to attraction.

“So.” Tristan was playing with a dagger in a juvenile show of intimidation. Dorian silently berated the man for lack of imagination. It was a futile attempt to ignore the growing ball of unease in his gut. “You're no relative of Adélie Delpieu- that much is obvious. But you know your way around high society. Not many mages could claim that, and given your looks... Tevinter, I presume?”

Dorian glowered at him.

“Not here on behalf of the Imperium, of course.” Tristan's eyes flickered to the recovered loot. “I somehow doubt the Magisterium has much interest in petty theft and vandalism.”

Dorian's jaw tightened. Tristan chuckled, like this was a victory.

“So. An Altus, by your breeding, come upon hard times.” He shook his head. “How the mighty have fallen.”

“Do you have a point?” The words erupted out of Dorian. “Or is this some obscure form of Orlesian torture in which you talk me to death?”

Tristan pointed the tip of the dagger at him. “Tell me, this plan: was it yours or your accomplice's?”

Dorian pressed his lips together. Not that he had any particular reason to defend Sera, but everything in him rebelled against giving Tristan a damned thing he wanted.

“Hers, then. I suspected as much.” Tristan stood in one fluid motion and leaned in over to Dorian's chair. “I'll make you a deal, Altus. One you might even like. Help us track down your elven friend and everyone else who helped you get in here, and I'll get you closer to the lifestyle to which you were once accustomed.”

Dorian opened his mouth to tell Tristan to go fuck himself, hesitated, and then said: “Pardon me?”

“Precisely.” Tristan grinned. The dagger tapped against Dorian's cheek. “We'll pardon you, for the theft and the impersonation. Then we'll get you trained up. It takes a special talent to waltz into a man's party wearing a false face and shake him by the hand. We'd better make sure you survive it next time.”

“You want me to be your Bard." Dorian's eyes widened.

“And why not?” Tristan's smile was insufferably smug. “A Bard who is also a mage? Think of the advantage that gives me in the Game. And of course, as your patron, my success would be your own.” He shrugged. “Or we could lock you in the cellar overnight and hand you over to the Chantry in the morning. I hear Aeonar is unpleasant, assuming you live long enough to reach it.”

A chill ran through Dorian at the mention of the infamous Southern mage prison. He managed to suppress the shudder that went with it. Instead, he summoned every last drop of Altus arrogance, drawing it around himself like a cape. “Spare me your clumsy threats. The South is so tiresome when it comes to magic.” He tilted his head to study Tristan, and delivered his verdict with a haughty sniff. “I suppose I should be grateful at least one of you barbarians has the wit to appreciate my talents.”

Tristan tapped the dagger on his sleeve. “Is that a yes, then?”

“No, I'd far rather take my chances as a penniless apostate living in a rat-infested hole with an elven vagabond." Dorian injected disdain into every syllable. Tristan had to be aware how good his offer was even without the threat behind it. Any sane man in Dorian's position would leap at the chance he offered. “The wine is practically vinegar and everyone I meet thinks that Genitivi is some sort of Antivan delicacy. Truly, it has been a delight.”

Tristan laughed and leaned forward, slitting Dorian's bindings with the dagger. “Then welcome to my household. Might I know the name of my newest retainer?”

Dorian rubbed his wrists. He watched Tristan with wary eyes as the man stepped back, giving him room to leave the chair. “Rilienus Amphion, at your service.” He inclined his head in a polite bow, without the slightest flicker of guilt for the falsehood. All other considerations aside, he wasn't giving this man the means to contact his family.

“And your friend?”

Dorian sighed. “I doubt the name she gave me was genuine. I can, however, direct your men to her hideout should she evade them here.”

“Disappointing,” said Tristan, with a slight frown. “But it should suffice.” He gestured to Émile, who was watching them both in wide-eyed terror. “What about this one?”

“What about him?” asked Dorian, affecting nonchalance.

“He was not your accomplice? Your inside man?”

Dorian snorted, getting to his feet and shaking off the ropes. “Please. Does he seem capable of even the most basic deception?” He shook his head and tried to ignore the leaden weight of the magebane. “I thought he was out of place in the ballroom, but whatever his motives, they have nothing to do with me.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes at the trembling Émile. “I have some suspicions in that matter,” he said softly. Émile quaked.

Dorian flinched as the door slammed open and Marquis Boudreaux stormed in. The Marquis caught sight of him and stopped in the doorway.

“Tristan, what is this blaggard doing loose?” His cane waved threateningly at Dorian.

“Rilienus here has accepted my offer of employment." Tristan's eyes crinkled with amusement.

The Marquis rounded on him. “Are you mad? The man is an apostate! A thief!”

“I am standing right here,” said Dorian, louder than was necessary. “Unlike my erstwhile compatriot, I should add, who is very likely getting away as we speak.”

Tristan turned back to him. “You are certain you can tell the guards where to find her hideout?”

“It would be better if I could show them,” said Dorian, with just the right amount of hopeful enthusiasm.

“Absolutely not!” the Marquis declared.

“Out of the question,” Tristan agreed. “You understand, of course, that I cannot let you out of my sight yet.”

“As you wish.” Dorian turned his back to both men as he picked up his mask, tying it to his face once again. He turned back with a dazzling smile and a bow. “Since that is the case... lead on, my Lords.”

The bow seemed to cinch it. Tristan stepped past the Marquis to hold the door open, and kept his eyes on Dorian as he left the room. Outside there was a guard, who stood to attention as Tristan closed and locked the door behind them. Dorian nodded amiably to the man and kept a steady pace behind the Marquis. Tristan hadn't taken his eyes off Dorian yet. Under different circumstances it could have been flattering.

They made their way back to the third floor, where a bevy of guards were waiting at the stairwell. The captain saluted the Marquis, and frowned when he saw Dorian.

“My Lord, we have yet to locate the intruder,” he said.

“You can't find one elf?” The Marquis' knuckles were white on his cane. “I'll have the lot of you flogged!”

Given how the guards tensed, Dorian didn't think it an idle threat. Fortunately, before the Marquis could make good on it, Tristan stepped forward and beckoned Dorian with him.

“This man knows where she'll flee to,” Tristan told the guard captain. “Follow his directions. We will continue the search here.”

The look the guard captain turned on Dorian was sceptical at best. Dorian ignored it and described a route through the slums. Ten minutes had passed before he was certain his instructions were understood.

“It should take you half an hour if you leave now. She may have a head start.” Dorian turned back to Tristan. “Really, this would be much simpler if you allowed me to go with them.”

“I think you will be of more help to us here." Tristan obviously didn't trust “Rilienus” just yet. Dorian gave the man his sweetest smile. He stepped back into Tristan's shadow to watch as the bulk of the house guards marched out. A few stayed as a skeleton force, enough to watch the doors but not to patrol the hallways. It seemed to Dorian an excessive force to hunt down one lone elf. Then again, the Marquis seemed the type to swat a fly with a fireball. Or should that be a battleaxe, outside Tevinter?

The Marquis watched the guards go, expression inscrutable behind his large mask. “Hmph. I suppose we had best get hunting for this rabbit, then.”

Tristan stared at him. “Surely the guards have already-”

“Never send a trooper to do an officer's job.” The Marquis snapped his fingers and gestured. One of the remaining guards turned over his crossbow. “Mark my words, our quarry is still about, waiting for the fuss to die down. With any luck she'll take this chance to make a break for it, and then we'll have her.” His cane clattered loud against the wood as he stomped off down the corridor.

“And where do you propose we begin our search?” asked Tristan. To Dorian, he sounded acerbic, exasperated with the older man. Whatever plans he had for the evening were surely quite ruined by now. The thought settled warm and fuzzy in Dorian's breast.

“Not a search.” The Marquis glanced back, his eyes glittering with excitement. “A _hunt.”_ He set out again, setting a punishing pace for a man with only one good leg. “Right now our prey is hiding, but she'll want a tidy profit from tonight, and a way out with her neck intact. The guest wing has plenty of places to go unnoticed and trinkets to steal. She'll be heading downward, likely towards the kitchens rather than the main doors. Plenty of elves coming and going there.”

It was, Dorian had to admit, an excellent assessment of what someone in Sera's circumstances would likely do. “So where are we going now?”

“Servant's stair,” the Marquis grunted, shuffling along. “This way.”

The servant's stair was as unlike the grand staircases in the main and rear halls as it was possible to get. The door to it was crafted to seem like a closet; Dorian caught a glimpse of a dark spiral downwards as the Marquis checked inside. Then the Marquis closed the door and ushered them back into an alcove. From there, they could spy on the comings and goings from behind a plush crimson curtain. Dorian backed up a little further to put a large painted vase between him and the two Orlesian nobles.

“My Lord,” said Tristan. The Marquis hushed him, but he continued in a lower voice. “About the other elf...”

“What other elf?” the Marquis asked.

“The servant? From the ballroom?”

“Oh, that one.” The Marquis was focused entirely on the door, and Tristan entirely on him. Dorian slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out the ink Sera had thrust into his hand earlier. It was a small pot, half-empty. Still enough for his purposes.

“My Lord, I have... concerns, about him. And Madeleine.”

Dorian dipped the tip of his finger in the ink and, without looking, began to trace on the cream-painted wall at his back. He froze as the Marquis looked around, his mouth a disapproving moue.

“And what are you insinuating about my daughter?”

Tristan cleared his throat. “Nothing, my Lord, of course.”

The Marquis turned back to watch the stair. Dorian scrawled a few more letters onto his message.

Tristan was still talking. “I would feel more comfortable, however, if the servant were... no longer a concern.”

The Marquis grunted. “Very well. Get your new pet to do it, if you must. Be sure and tidy the mess after.”

Dorian's letters faltered as the meaning of their words sank in. He finished the message in a few quick motions. Tugging out a handkerchief, he wiped the last of the ink from his fingers.

“There!” the Marquis hissed. Dorian glanced past him and his heart sank; there indeed was Sera, heading for the stairs. She was still wearing her servant's uniform, although she had ditched the hat. Since Dorian had last seen her she had acquired more trinkets to adorn her person. She glanced both ways then slipped through the door into the servant's stair. It closed behind her with a soft click.

“Come on!” The Marquis was fast off the mark. Dorian had the sense he had been an eager hunter before his injury. Tristan trailed reluctantly behind, giving Dorian ample time to drop the ink-stained handkerchief by his message. Subterfuge complete, he followed on his new employer's heels.

The servants' stair was treacherous and dark. Forced to travel in single file, their speed was limited by the Marquis who was struggling on the steep, narrow steps with his cane. Dorian imagined Sera getting further away with each passing moment. He wasn't the only one; as they stumbled downwards in a halting spiral, Tristan's impatience grew all the more overt.

“For the Maker's sake, can't you go any faster?” he snapped.

“Hold your tongue!” There was a faint sheen of sweat on the Marquis’ face.

“Void take this,” Tristan muttered, and lunged forward. Knocked off-balance, the Marquis shouted. Dorian caught him before he tumbled, Tristan racing ahead down the staircase. The cane rattled down after him, gone in an instant.

“Why that... that...” The Marquis was red with rage as Dorian helped him back to his feet and slung one of the man's arms over his shoulder. “How dare he!”

“I suggest we get off the staircase.” Dorian tried to manoeuvre them downwards. There was no space for them to move two abreast, which made for odd, shuffling progress. “We'll move faster in the halls.”

“Good thinking,” The Marquis was still brandishing the crossbow in one hand. “Perhaps that impertinent whelp was right to recruit you after all.”

“If you're jealous, you could always make a better offer." The next floor was only a few steps down. Dorian jammed the Marquis between his shoulder and the wall while he opened the door. “Unlimited access to your wine cellar could go a long way to persuading me.”

“Treacherous little snake, aren't you?” The Marquis was still leaning heavily on Dorian as they staggered out into the corridor. “I'd have to be a damn fool to trust you.”

“Now that's hurtful,” said Dorian. “And I do hope inaccurate, for the most part.” His eyes fell on a nearby door, one he remembered from earlier, and he smirked. “In your case, however, I am prepared to make an exception.”

“What?” The Marquis stiffened as Dorian manhandled him towards the door. “Stop! Unhand me! GUARDS!”

“Now, none of that,” said Dorian, tugging open the broom closet. It was laughably easy to shove the Marquis inside and slam the door behind him. A flash of searing heat melted the latch closed; it would take an axe to break the Marquis out now.

Dorian took a step back and shook his head at the shouting and pounding coming from the closet. “Never fear, my lord. I'm sure someone will be along to rescue you presently!”

As tempting as it was to stand and mock the trapped Marquis, sooner or later he would attract attention. Turning on his heel, Dorian marched back along the corridor, heading for the main staircase. Tristan was hunting Sera by the kitchens, so he would leave by the front door. After an evening spent combing back and forth Dorian had a solid grasp of the layout of the building. It was minutes at most before he found himself one short descent away from the entrance hall and freedom.

That, of course, was when the screaming started.

Dorian watched in mingled horror and astonishment as the patrons of the soiree began pouring from the ballroom like petals in a high wind, all shrieking and tearing at one another to get past. At first he couldn't work out why. Then he saw the cause on the ground between their feet, and burst into laughter.

 _Rats._ Great brown and grey rats, some almost as large as small dogs, pouring out of the ballroom and winding around the panicking partygoers. How Sera had pulled it off he couldn't imagine; that she had was not in question. Dorian was almost jealous. He wouldn't know how to even contemplate causing this much chaos and panic without the use of magic. Besides, after an evening of lies, duplicity, skulduggery and selfish ambition, it was cathartic to see the Grand Game of Orlais suspended on account of rodents.

Unfortunately, the mess of vermin at the base of the stairs- human or otherwise- made his original plan seem rather less fruitful. Dorian leaned over the upper veranda to watch and contemplate his options. After a minute or so the rats started making headway up the stairs and he beat a hasty retreat.

Turning the corner, he bumped into an attractive man in a familiar mask.

“You might not want to go that way,” he told the Bard, and inclined his head to the two people in the man's wake. “Lady Boudreaux. Émile.”

Émile, startled to see him, stepped protectively in front of Madeleine without letting go of her hand. The Bard, on the other hand, remained unruffled by Dorian's presence. “Can I assume that this... invasion... is your doing?”

Dorian held his hands up. “Mine? Sadly, I cannot say it is so.” He chuckled. “Then again, I would be lying if I claimed complete innocence in the matter.” He gestured to Madeleine and Émile. “I see you got my message.”

“I did,” said the Bard. “Ink on the wall, a handkerchief to signal its presence- very dramatic! I do hope one day to learn how you escaped that room. For now, though, I will settle for the promised price.”

“Of course.” Dorian leaned closer. “I personally witnessed the Duchess of Val Firmin in _flagrante delicto_ with the Comte du Arlone's wife earlier this evening. Their masks were quite distinctive, even on the floor.”

“Truly?” The Bard chuckled. “I thank you, my friend, for a most interesting dance.” He waved a hand to the two lovers, who were looking between them in confusion. “I leave them in your capable hands. Next time we meet, I will not underestimate you.”

“You will forgive me if I hope you never see me again,” said Dorian. The Bard chuckled and lifted Dorian's hand, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. He vanished around the corner with a swish of his cape.

Dorian shook his head. “Orlesians,” he sighed. He looked to his new charges. “Right. Do either of you know a way out of here that isn't through the kitchen or the front door?”

“But… don’t you work for Lord du Chamont?” said Émile, confirming Dorian’s suspicion that he wasn’t the brightest staff in the rack.

“It’s called lying.” Dorian rolled his eyes. “Honestly, try to keep up.” He strode past them, thinking quickly. The garden backed onto the river, but he could swim if it came to that. “This way.”

“And what assurance do we have that you’re not lying to us now?”

Dorian turned back. Lady Boudreaux was staring haughtily at him, folded arms almost hiding the nerves behind her defiance. Beside her, Émile was trying to look fierce. They were both so young. An impossible weight settled over Dorian, and he turned away again.

“None whatsoever,” he said. “I’m leaving. Do as you wish.”

A few moments later, the two of them caught up with him.

“Are you really a Magister?” asked Émile.

“Oh, for the Maker’s sake,” said Dorian. “No. I am not, and have never been, a Magister.”

“But-”

“Do you honestly think this is the time?” Dorian asked him.

“Is it true you came here to rob us?” asked Lady Boudreaux.

“Yes,” said Dorian. Lady Boudreaux flinched back, and he sighed. “Rob you, not ravish you in your bed. In case it had escaped your notice, I am currently in the process of rescuing you from your father and fiancé, which is sadly the most untoward thing I’m likely to do all evening.”

There was a pause, and then...“Thank you,” said Lady Boudreaux.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Dorian.

They hurried in grim silence to the top of the rear staircase. As Dorian had expected, the cascade of rodents had come through this way already and cleared out the partygoers. They had to pick their footing past the straggling rats, and Lady Boudreaux flinched more than once, but there was no-one to stare or take note as they hurried out into the balmy night.

Glancing around the garden, Dorian saw a small postern gate set into the far wall. It was likely access to a pleasure boat on the river but for now, it made a suitable means of escape. He hurried towards it, attention on Émile and Lady Boudreaux. Too late he noticed the shadow that stepped out to block his path.

“You are proving to be quite the irritation.” Tristan held his sword levelled at Dorian’s throat, ready to cut at the slightest twitch. “They do say that one should never trust a traitor. You’ll never know when they’ll turn their coat again.”

“That would suppose I turned it in the first place,” said Dorian. “Thank you for untying me, by the way. I couldn’t possibly have got this far without your help.”

“And how far have you gotten, precisely?” Tristan’s eyes flicked past Dorian. “Madeleine. I wish I could say I was surprised. At least now your father will have to believe me; I look forward to seeing him put your little rabbit’s head on a pike.”

There was a gasp behind Dorian, but he didn’t dare turn around. He kept his gaze locked on Tristan. “I can’t help but note this is not the kitchens.”

Tristan’s face soured. “Yes. Your elven friend proved more cunning than I had thought. After the rats poured through the kitchen, I realised she had to have another exit planned. Of course I thought of the river gate.”

“Of course.” Dorian’s mind raced. If he could distract Tristan, only for a moment, then he would have time to cast a spell. “And yet she doesn’t seem to be here either, does she?”

“I’ll settle for you.” Tristan smiled, teeth white against the darkness. “I’ll enjoy getting you to tell me where I can find her. I assume my guards will be returning empty-handed?”

“Naturally,” said Dorian. “Although they will smell quite terrible. Some of their uniforms may have to be burned.”

Tristan shook his head. “I don’t understand you. I offered riches, respect, and you throw it back in my face. For what?”

“I did tell you,” said Dorian. “I’d far rather take my chances as a penniless apostate.” His eyes slid behind Tristan, and he smiled in triumph. “And I’ll bet on an elven vagabond over you any day.”

Tristan’s head half-turned, his attention going to the empty shadows behind him. Dorian grabbed for the Fade, mana roaring bright.

With a soft _thwick-thwak,_ two red-fletched arrows sprouted from Tristan’s neck. Dorian’s magic faded untouched. Tristan lowered his sword and raised a surprised hand to his throat. Blood welled up between his fingers and his mouth opened in a silent “O”. Dorian, Émile and Lady Boudreaux watched in shock as the man crumpled to the grass like a falling leaf.

Dorian glanced back in time to see Sera vanish into the building. She didn’t look as if she had any plans to come back, so he faced the stunned couple instead. “These plans of yours,” he said to Émile. “Did they, perchance, involve eloping?”

Émile glanced at Lady Boudreaux, and the two of them hesitantly nodded.

Dorian pressed a hand to his forehead. “Maker,” he muttered. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the heavy little sack of stolen coin and jewellery- palmed whilst picking up his mask earlier. “Here,” he said, handing it to Lady Boudreaux. “Running away together may sound terribly romantic, but trust me, romance won’t get you anywhere.” He looked back at Émile. “Get to a small town across whichever border you fancy and find work as soon as you can. And if all else fails...”

Dorian took a deep breath and looked up at the stars. The sky in Val Royeaux was like the sky in Qarinus, but the air was different. Lighter and stiller, filled with the perfume of foreign flowers and spices, music in the wrong modes rising with the breeze.

“...if all else fails, remember why you ran,” he said.

“Thank you, Master Delpieu.” Lady Boudreax held the bag close to her chest, clutching it like the lifeline it was. Dorian bowed and took her hand, kissing the knuckles as he had when they met in the ballroom.

“It has been a pleasure, Lady Boudreaux,” he said.

“I intend to leave that name behind when the sun rises,” she said. “Madeleine, please.”

“Madeleine, then.” Dorian nodded to Émile. “May the Maker go with you both.” With one final bow to the two young lovers, he ran to the garden door and pulled it open. Beyond was a brick towpath and a private dock. Dorian ignored the yacht and raced away down the riverbank, heading the opposite way to Madeleine and Émile.

After a mile or so the towpath gave way to a dirt track, and then meandered to nothing. Dorian stopped as the sun was rising, leaning against a tree and breathing heavily. He ripped off his mask and threw it into the river. It floated for a moment on the ripples, gleaming in the dawning sunlight, before it sank below the surface. Dorian saluted it as it went. It seemed fitting, somehow.

He stumbled back into the city somewhere around the market district. There he stuck to the back alleys to avoid having to explain his soiled but still-fine clothes. It took most of the morning to make it back to the stone bazaar. When he climbed to the ruined floor he wasn’t surprised to find Sera’s alcove empty, stripped of any sign she had ever been there.

~

That night, Dorian made his way back to the tavern where he had lost at cards a week before. There was little point in running from Ducan; it wasn’t as though time would improve his situation.

It would have been nice to have a staff, though.

Dorian nodded to the great hairless brute guarding the doorway. Inside the tavern was even grimier and more shadowy than he remembered. The stink of burning oil failed to cover the smells of cheap alcohol and noisome humanity. Ducan was still sitting in his corner by the fireplace, surrounded by heavy-set humans and deep in discussion with another dwarf. His companion looked up as Dorian approached. He hastily vacated the table at Ducan’s dismissive gesture.

Dorian stopped at the end of the table and met Ducan’s stare. There were five men around the dwarf. By Dorian’s estimate, he could take out two with fire before the others hit him. Necromancy could disable more, or could be useless; they didn’t seem the type to scare easily, but here in the South, who knew?

“Nice clothes,” said Ducan.

Dorian shrugged. “I’ve had nicer.”

“Aye, I’ll bet you have.” Ducan studied him with narrowed eyes. “I seem to recall telling you not to show your face unless you had my money.”

“You did.” Definitely Necromancy. It would get him all the wrong kinds of attention, but at least he’d have a chance of being alive to regret it. “Worse than a beating, I believe you said.”

Ducan's chair scraped across the floor and his rings rattled as they slammed onto the table. “So where’s my sodding twenty royals, ‘Vint?”

“About that.” Dorian flexed his fingers.

There was a sudden commotion by the door. All eyes swivelled towards it. Dorian did a double take as Sera, swaggering, shoved her way past the muscle. She glanced around, eyes lighting on him, then strode towards Ducan’s corner.

“Here,” she said, and threw a small bag onto the table with a heavy thump. “That’s got him covered, yeah?”

The room held its breath as Ducan picked up the bag and poured some of the contents onto his palm. They glittered in the firelight like fallen stars.

“That it does, Miss,” he said, as polite as Dorian had ever heard him. His expression soured as he turned it back to Dorian. “I see you again, all the gold in Orzammar ain’t enough.”

“Got it,” said Dorian, backing away. Sera was already halfway to the door. “And a good evening to you all.” He hurried out into the street after Sera, chasing her down a narrow alley.

“Why?” he blurted, as soon as she was in earshot.

Sera hesitated in her stride.

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Dorian.

Sera turned and Dorian took a step back. Fury poured off her in waves. “Yeah, well, you didn’t have to go giving all your loot to those two last night, did you?”

“That’s what this is about?” Dorian scowled right back at her. “I was quite aware of what I was doing, you know, and I was prepared to deal with the consequences. I don’t need your charity, or your pity.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sera stepped up and stabbed him in the chest with a finger as sharp as her arrows. “Didn’t look that way when that prick had you all ready to get pricked last night. Or when I found you bawling over there last week.”

Her finger jabbed towards a rotting crate. Dorian flushed as he recognised where they were. “I was not bawling! I was a little overwrought, is all. I would have been quite all right without your assistance!”

“Yeah, well, I would’ve managed that party fine without you,” Sera snapped back. “So you can stick that in your pipe and huff on it!”

“Very well, then!” Dorian thrust his chin out. “I suppose we’re clear, then! Neither of us needs the other!”

“S’right.” Sera stared at him, then to Dorian’s surprise her posture softened and she broke into a grin. “But we were wicked good, right?”

Hesitantly, Dorian let his own shoulders relax. “For certain wildly inaccurate definitions of the word, I suppose.” He thought for a moment. “The rats were frankly inspired.”

Sera’s grin widened. “You liked that, yeah?”

“It certainly livened the party,” said Dorian. “Although if I had to pick, the part where you shot Tristan in the throat was my favourite.”

“Yeah, well, you made him look.” Sera tilted her head, studying Dorian. “You were gonna set him on fire and all that?”

“Well, of course.” Dorian tried not to wonder what _all that_ might mean in Sera’s head.

Sera nodded and then, to Dorian’s surprise, thumped him lightly in the shoulder. “You’re not so bad, you. For a stuck-up ‘Vinty mage.”

Dorian smirked and shoved her back. “You’re not entirely unlikeable yourself. You know. For an uneducated Southern vagabond.”

Sera nodded. “Good.” She took a step back, spat on her hand, and held it out to Dorian.

Dorian wrinkled his nose. “You must be joking.”

Sera cackled and spun on her heel. Dorian watched her go, shadows swallowing her up until halfway down the alley. Then she stopped and turned back.

“So you coming, or what?” she asked.

Dorian considered the question. _Coming where?_ was his first thought, and one he quickly rejected. It wasn’t as if it truly mattered. “Do I get to make the plan next time?”

Sera laughed and started down the alley again. Dorian hurried after her, smiling despite himself. It was, after all, the best offer he could hope for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Dorian and Sera skipped off into the sunset together, to ruin the days of the deserving and to enjoy the spoils.
> 
> This fic has less Sera in it than I would have liked, but she really didn't want to trust Dorian, hence her fucking off and leaving him to get in trouble alone. Still, she saved his sorry arse in the end, so I guess that counts as a big damn hero moment?
> 
> IDK, just do what I do and imagine them wandering all over Thedas being partners in crime. *stares into space smiling*


End file.
